Illusion
By Laurie James
Illusion wears a fur coat but pulls the wool over my eyes
Her stale breath reeks of coffee and bad teeth
You can hear those old songs in the back of her throat
I ride her piggyback over the pins and needles
of the great plateau to where she sleeps
on a bench of granite beside a tumbleweed-filled arroyo
We cook cream of rice cereal with plump red currants
in a burnt-out old pan over an open fire, take turns stirring,
until it boils over, runs down the sides, puts the fire out
Illusion, I ask, What did you dream last night?
And she says in a low, slow voice
“I was rounding up wild mustangs astride a one-eyed stallion
I lost my Stetson in the strong desert wind,
watched it blow away and get trampled”
Illusion shades her eyes with all my wishes,
I have to ask: “How long you gonna rustle wild horses, girl?”
We watch the buzzards glide over an old carcass
I am thinking somewhere
there are fields of blue flax waving in the breeze
Illusion lies down, puts her old hands over her eyes
I pull my shawl tighter
Watch the smoke rise from the snuffed-out fire
I say the answer out loud for her — “forever”
And then I blink
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